


Blessed

by SugarsweetRomantic



Series: Bridget Westfall, or: The Fine Art of Self-Destruction [2]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:28:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11413125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarsweetRomantic/pseuds/SugarsweetRomantic
Summary: It didn’t feel right. It didn't feel real. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. This had never been the way it was supposed to go.





	Blessed

_ Matthew 5:4 - Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. _

 

_ Revelation 14:13 - Then I heard a voice from heaven say, “Write this: Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on.” “Yes,” says the Spirit, “they will rest from their labor, for their deeds will follow them.” _

 

**_Blessed_ ** __  
  


Bridget Westfall could still hear the words in her mind. "I love you, and I'll be back." She had never expected the return of her beloved to be via the national news. The television had repeated it over the past hour: "Escaped inmate Francesca Doyle shot dead by police in pursuit."

 

It didn’t feel right. It didn't feel real. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. This had never been the way it was supposed to go. Wasn't true love supposed to conquer all? Love wins, right? She had heard it time and time again in countless fairy tales while growing up: the evil loses, and the good guys win.

 

Well, Cinderella and Snow White and their happily-ever-afters could go fuck themselves for all she cared. The evil stepmother in her life was decidedly more alive and free than Franky. Joan Ferguson had escaped. No-one knew when, and no-one knew how, but the bitch had managed to flee from her predestination to die at Wentworth at the hands from the other inmates. She had been spotted, once in Geelong, and there had been a reported sighting of her in fucking Townsville. After that, nothing. The Freak was free. The Freak was alive. And by the looks of it, the Freak had won.

 

She tried refusing to believe it; she really did. But when your TV is telling you over and over that the love of your life died like a Goddamn animal, there was only so long you could keep the act up. She had already gotten the call from Vera. ‘I'm so sorry, Bridget,’ the Governor had told her. Bridget had laughed at the idiocy of it all. She knew that Vera would be relieved, not sad. Fifty percent of her escapees had now been dealt with. That sure would make the next press conference a hell of a lot easier, wouldn't it?

 

Bridget knew her denial was part of her beginning to grieve. Oh, she knew it all too well. DABDA - Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. She'd talked dozens, if not hundreds of people through it. Fucking bullshit. ‘It'll get easier over time; time heals all wounds.’ Well, the wound was right fucking there, and it hurt like hell!

 

Then again, all they'd shown so far on the news was the beach at which everything had gone down. Maybe it wasn't Franky? Maybe they were mistaken? Maybe it just was someone who looked like her. The statistical likeness to find two exact looking persons under the current forensic research conditions was less than one in a trillion, but that was more than zero, right? She glanced back at the offending device which was still announcing the ‘courageous actions of the police’. Suddenly, a fleck of white on the screen caught her attention. 

“No…”

 

The word unconsciously left her mouth on a gasp. The camera had zoomed in on the plastic sheet covering the body. The commentator was remarking how: “Miss Doyle seemed to have lost a shoe in the pursuit.” A loud sob resounded through the house, sounding so foreign to her that Bridget almost didn't realise she herself had been the one to produce it. She knew that shoe: a white canvas Converse sneaker with colourful scribbles on them - a drawing by Tess. She had tripped over that exact shoe countless times. She had yelled about it. She had cursed about it. And God, what she wouldn't give right now to have that shoe and its owner back in her home right now. She'd gladly fall flat on her face because of it every single day of the rest of her life. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. It was unfair, damn it! Franky deserved better; Tess deserved better; she deserved better! 

 

Bridget suddenly felt a wave of nausea travel through her body. Clasping a hand in front of her mouth, she rushed towards the nearest basin she could find, having to settle for the kitchen sink. The inverted peristalsis coursed through her torso, causing her breakfast to leave her body the way it had entered it. She scoffed at her own inability to keep it together. While she tried to make the bile disappear down the drain, she rinsed her mouth of the bitter taste. 

 

Her house was filled with the evidence of Franky. All she wanted to do was scream to the world: ‘She's more than just an inmate! She's sweet! She's smart! She's the most empathetic person I've ever met in my life!’ There was no point. Francesca Doyle would now forever be remembered by the public as the criminal who was shot to death by the brave men and women of the Victorian police force. Justice, was it? Lady Iustitia needed a Goddamn reality check. Years of working in prisons had taught Bridget that impartiality was a nice concept on paper, but it was worth shit in reality. Once a criminal, always a criminal. That was what the public would think. It was what they would say; what they would write. And it was going to hurt, over and over and over again.

 

The knock at the door was deafening, and Bridget winced at the sudden noise. As she opened it, the people standing on her porch surprised her. Instead of Vera or Will, or even Alan, she was staring at two police officers. "Bridget Westfall? We come to question you about your involvement with Francesca Doyle." 

 

Bridget didn't know whether she wanted to cry or burst out laughing. The universe really had a fucked-up sense of humour. If she had lived in a Greek tragedy, at least she'd end up dead. But no, this was reality, and reality was that Franky's life had been ended prematurely while trying to prove her innocence by a bullet to the chest, and that Bridget would now have to learn to live with an ache in hers. 

 

And the most messed-up part?

It had all been worth it.

  
~Fin.


End file.
